


resting-places where we run

by Damkianna



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Barebacking, Confrontations, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Reunions, Rough Sex, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Jim Barclay knew he was being tailed.
Relationships: Mitch McDeere/Joey Morolto Jr.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	resting-places where we run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> ♥
> 
> Title adapted from the poem "[Lost](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=15093)" by Genevieve Taggard.

Jim Barclay knew he was being tailed.

It had happened before. He'd noticed for the first time three weeks ago; the dedication of the tail had ramped up steadily until it was every night this week.

There wasn't anything he could do about it. There wasn't anything anybody could do about it, or at least that's what the local Marshals office had told him. He'd done what he was supposed to, called in and let them know about it. But it wasn't Louis Coleman on the other end of the line anymore, because Jim Barclay didn't know him. And they couldn't do anything for him unless something actually happened, except send a car around to check on him twice as often as usual.

So he did the same thing he always did: he set his jaw, and kept going.

He was walking, tonight. That was one of the few things he _could_ do about it—change his route home from the office, switch from driving his car to catching the bus and back again on an irregular schedule.

But the closest bus stop to Jim Barclay's house was about twenty minutes' walk, out here in the suburbs.

And it was just his luck, Jim thought, that he was walking it tonight.

Because tonight, the car that had been peeking in and out of view behind the bus wasn't speeding off past him the way it usually did. It was slowing down.

Jim didn't let himself look over his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and he kept walking. He couldn't run; it wouldn't help. It would only draw attention, and he clearly already had enough of that.

He wished distantly he hadn't let them place him here. In the city, he might have had a chance to lose them, cutting through a building or dodging down into a subway station. But out here it was just sidewalks, clean cut lawns and neatly spaced houses, nice ordinary people who'd probably have pretty strong feelings about a strange man ducking into their garage without warning.

Which meant, he thought grimly, he was screwed.

The car stopped, a couple strides behind him. Doors opened; he heard footsteps. Two. Maybe three. He stuffed a hand in his pocket, reached the screen of his phone and moved his fingertip across it, and maybe he had the unlock pattern right or maybe he didn't, but he couldn't pull it out and check. If he'd done it right, he knew about where the call icon would be, and the Marshals were first on his speed dial, under "The Good Italian Place".

It wasn't going to be enough to save him. By the time they got here, he was probably already going to have been beaten unconscious and shoved into the trunk of that car. But at least he'd have left a trail. At least they'd know something had happened to him.

The footsteps got louder, closer. Jim tensed involuntarily. Five minutes away from a door he could've closed and locked behind him, but he didn't have five minutes; he didn't have _two_ minutes—

"Going somewhere?"

Jim stopped short, and looked up.

He'd been listening so hard to the footsteps behind him that he hadn't been paying attention to what was in front of him.

And what was in front of him was a man in an incredibly expensive suit, standing on the curb with his hands in his pockets like he'd been waiting for them.

It was Joey Morolto, Jr. And he was smiling.

Jim stayed where he was, and swallowed hard.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Morolto," said one of the men behind him, conspicuously deferent. "We just need to have a chat with our friend here."

A step was taken. A hand landed on Jim's shoulder, heavy, and squeezed tight.

"And I'd be happy to leave you fellows to it, believe me," Joey said amiably, bouncing absently on the balls of his feet, "except it seems there's one real important thing you don't know."

"And what's that?" the guy said, and his tone was kind of pointed, the mask of politeness slipping a little. He wasn't going to try to muscle Joey Morolto around; he wasn't stupid. But he'd made it clear he and his buddies weren't trying to get in the way of Joey's business, and he obviously expected Joey to extend the same courtesy in return.

The way Joey's smile went thin and sharp said it wasn't going to happen.

"Oh, nothing complicated," he said, bland. "Just that your boss doesn't get to fuck with—" He paused, and looked Jim in the eye, and enunciated very precisely: "With _Jim Barclay_ here without permission from me."

"Mr. Morolto," another guy said.

"Understand?" Joey bit out.

He looked at Jim, and then at the hand on Jim's shoulder, and then past Jim. He raised an eyebrow.

The hand let go, and was lifted away.

The silence stretched.

These three obviously didn't have the authority to just start a war with Joey Morolto out of nowhere. They couldn't make a move like that without a directive from their boss.

And Joey wasn't budging.

"We—don't want any trouble with you, Mr. Morolto," one of them said, after a moment.

Joey was still smiling. But his eyes were hard. "That's right," he agreed warmly. "You don't."

Jim stood there, and didn't look over his shoulder. He didn't want to; he didn't want to make eye contact, didn't want to breathe wrong, didn't want to do one single thing that might make them feel like they had to make a point.

He was pretty sure Joey was ready to handle them if they did. But he wasn't exactly eager to end up caught between Joey Morolto and three dead bodies, on the sidewalk five minutes away from his house.

"We'll let our boss know you got an interest in the matter," somebody said at last. "I'm sure some kind of arrangement can be made."

"Oh, I hope so," Joey said, with every appearance of friendly sincerity.

And then it was over. Joey was wished a studious good evening, and then that mixture of footsteps retreated; car doors reopened, and were closed. The car drove away.

Jim looked at Joey.

Joey looked back, assessing, thoughtful, head tilted to one side; and then he raised an eyebrow. "What, not planning to thank me for the rescue, Mitch?"

God. Mitch tried to hang onto it, tried to cling to Jim Barclay's quiet mild-mannered brain, his easy unremarkable life, a world Joey Morolto had never been supposed to set foot in—but nobody had called him _Mitch_ in almost a year, and it was like being shocked awake, fingers in a wall socket, nerves tingling.

"Joey," he said, strained, "what the hell are you doing—"

"Saving you?" Joey filled in. "And here I thought you'd be thanking your lucky stars I was able to track you down faster than Aquino and his punks." He nodded toward the departed car, just about to turn a corner in the distance.

"Faster," Mitch repeated.

And Joey looked at him in a steady searching way, face unreadable, and said, "Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. You didn't honestly think I was going to let somebody else find you first, did you?"

His tone was sweet, sweet in that way that meant he was bitterly furious; and jesus, just how long had he known where Mitch was? How long had he been watching, waiting, ready to step out right when the drama reached its pitch? Right when—

Right when, maybe, Mitch had needed him the most—

Mitch bit down on the inside of his cheek. God, that was a dangerous thing to think, and he couldn't afford it. He couldn't afford to be stupid about this. He was already halfway off the edge, skin lit up and prickling all over at the idea that Joey had been paying attention, looking for him. That Joey had found him, god only knew how long ago, and had never been planning on letting anybody else get to him; but only so Joey could taunt him with it. Only so Joey could fuck him up first.

That was how this worked. He needed to remember that, and he needed to get a goddamn grip.

He'd forgotten what it was like, that was all. How it felt, being within arm's reach of Joey, all Joey's attention on him. The way it made everything come into clear sharp focus, the way it made his breath catch, the way it made his heart pound.

But it didn't matter. It couldn't matter. He couldn't let it.

"I take it you're going to be walking me home," he said aloud, and the words were as even and steady as he could make them.

"I'll even carry your books," Joey murmured, dulcet; and when Mitch looked away and started walking, he followed, right at Mitch's shoulder, inescapable.

Mitch couldn't decide whether or not to be grateful once they'd reached Jim Barclay's house.

On the one hand, it had taken five minutes that had felt like about half an hour. They'd walked in stifling, suffocating silence, and Mitch had been relentlessly conscious of every movement Joey made, the sound of his breathing and the scuff of his shoes; it had been excruciating.

On the other hand, now there was nothing left for it but to go inside. Letting Joey into his space—into Jim Barclay's space—was obviously a ludicrously terrible idea. But Mitch was well aware that Joey wasn't going to just turn around and leave without getting whatever it was he'd come for. And he couldn't exactly leave Joey Morolto standing out on his front step, either.

"Please, come in," Mitch said flatly. "Make yourself at home."

"Don't mind if I do," Joey murmured with a chilly little smile, eyes hard, and went inside.

It was a nice house. Small, but—

But these days, there wasn't any reason for it not to be. Abby had figured out two or three mob entanglements ago that Mitch's life wasn't going to get safer anytime soon, and that there was nothing he could do about it; she'd done what she'd needed to, for her own sake and for Claire's. It had hurt at the time—of course it had. But it had only been a couple of weeks before Mitch had found himself desperately grateful for it, because a couple of weeks was about how long it had been before the Russians had broken into the house, trashed it, and dragged Mitch out of it by his ankles.

Ray had gotten him out of there. Ray—and Joey. Mitch could still remember the look that had been on Joey's face when they'd found him. And he still didn't have the words to describe it—

Point was, the house was small. Neat. Clean.

Bland. The Marshals had been responsible for picking it out, getting Jim Barclay set up in it; Mitch hadn't bothered to change much. What point could there be in making the place feel like him, when he wasn't supposed to _be_ him anymore? This was Jim Barclay's place, not Mitch McDeere's, and Mitch got a fresh reminder of that every time he looked around. That was for the best.

"Not really your style," Joey said, glancing through the kitchen and into the den.

"It's not supposed to be," Mitch said.

Joey looked at him. "Right— _Jim_."

Mitch couldn't stop his mouth from twisting. It had been easy enough to hear that name, to answer to it, out of the mouths of strangers; but it was strange, abruptly, disorientingly, to hear it from Joey. Joey, who—who _knew_ him, at least as much as anybody did these days.

After Abby and Claire had left, after the Russians, Mitch hadn't been at his best. He'd been grateful to Ray for coming for him, for making Joey come for him. But that hadn't made it any easier for him to be around Ray and Tammy, newly married and giddily in love, with his own home so relentlessly empty. And without Abby and Claire, without Ray and Tammy, there had been—Joey.

Mitch had been bitter; so had Joey. Mitch had been furious and terrified at the same time, facing the idea that they were going to have to go up against the Russians and the FBI at the same time; so, he'd realized eventually, had Joey. Mitch had been dragged unwillingly back into Joey's orbit by Patrick, the murder case. But after the Russians had taken him, after Joey had come for him, he'd stayed in that orbit. He'd wanted to. He'd lost everything else he had, one piece at a time, until Joey's gravity was all that was left.

He'd even started to think—sometimes, late at night, in his office or at Joey's restaurant, Joey'd said something a little less biting than usual, looked at Mitch a certain way, and the tension that always stretched between them had suddenly felt—

It hadn't mattered. It couldn't have. He'd been stupid enough to let himself think it was something, but not stupid enough to do anything about it. He'd known better.

But it had meant something to him anyway, and apparently it still did.

Joey was watching him, mouth slanted, eyes sharp. "Having a nice life, Jim? All quiet and normal, huh? Feeling safe?"

"Yeah, Joey," Mitch said. "Moving halfway across the country and knowing you can't let anybody call you by your actual name—that's normal, isn't it? Quiet and safe, getting tailed on my way home by Emilio Aquino's goons and having Joey Morolto show up out of nowhere to intervene. That's a definition most people would agree with. No doubt about it."

Joey smiled wider.

"Not working out the way you hoped," he assessed, voice thick with false sympathy. "What a shame."

"Enough," Mitch snapped. "What do you want?"

There had to be something. There was always something. Joey showed up when he had a use for Mitch, when there was something Mitch could do for him—when he wanted to bask in the pleasure of making sure Mitch had no other option but to go along. Mitch needed to remember that.

"What, no 'how have you been, Joey?'?" Now the words were bitten off, vicious. Joey stalked a deliberate step closer. "'How are things going, Joey?' 'Hope I didn't leave you in the lurch when I fucked off without a word, Joey'—"

"I got _put in Witness Protection_ ," Mitch said. "It wasn't exactly up to me. Louis needed me to tie together everything we had on the Russians, once he got those files out of the FBI. But we had to move fast. There wasn't time." He shook his head, and laughed, a disbelieving little huff. "What the hell was I supposed to tell him, that he needed to give me five minutes so I could call _Joey Morolto_ and let him know?"

It sounded ridiculous, because that was exactly what it was. Of course he couldn't have done it. It had been idiotic of him to even let the thought cross his mind.

All the bullshit he'd put himself through to get here: alone, on the other side of the country, surrounded by strangers who could never be allowed to find out anything about him that mattered—thinking about Ray, Tammy. Abby. Claire. And Joey. Joey, inevitably, ten times a day; in the morning, eating breakfast, knowing no sleek black cars were going to pull up unexpectedly. At the office, an office Joey had never set foot in and never would. At night, when he couldn't stop himself. When he was too goddamned tired to try, when it was all he had left.

And now here Joey was, pissed off at him for it, because apparently all that still wasn't enough.

"Jesus, Joey. I'm sorry your favorite toy got taken away, all right? I'm sorry you haven't been able to yank my chain whenever you want—"

He stopped.

Joey looked _livid_. His eyes were pale and hard, piercing; his jaw was working visibly, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His breath was coming quick. Every inch of him was simmering with fury, barely banked.

"You're a goddamn idiot," he gritted out.

And then he crossed the rest of the space between them in two quick strides, caught Mitch's shirt in his hands and shoved him into the wall so hard it knocked the breath out of him, and kissed him.

 _Kissed_ him. Relentlessly, punishingly, and jesus, it was too much, it was all Mitch could do just to hang on. He was lucky, he thought dimly, that he had the wall at his back. He couldn't swear he'd have managed to stay standing otherwise. He clutched helplessly at Joey's shoulders, the nape of his neck, because he'd never been any good at backing down, not from Joey; he'd always ended up pushing back whenever Joey pushed him, even when it would have been smarter not to, and this was no exception.

Almost the second he got it together enough to kiss back, Joey tried to jerk away from him. Mitch hung on, reflexive, and then they were—they were standing there, tensed, caught, breathing hard.

"Joey," Mitch heard himself say. It came out hoarse and strange, and he flushed hot and couldn't stop it.

Joey didn't look angry anymore. He looked bitter, bright-eyed, almost in pain. He looked _afraid_.

"Shut up," he said harshly. "Just shut up—"

He cut himself off. He'd been wrenching himself away from Mitch a moment ago, but he couldn't seem to make himself keep going; he was swallowing hard, throat working, fists twisted up tight in the front of Mitch's shirt, gaze moving over Mitch's face with a desperate kind of hunger.

And then, all at once, he was in motion again. But not to push himself away. He was—he grabbed Mitch's tie, yanked the knot down until it came apart under his fingers, tugged at the buttons of Mitch's shirt until they parted and then switched gears in an instant, went for the waist instead. He pulled it loose and shoved his hands in, slid them greedily over the bare small of Mitch's back, and Mitch's breath caught in his throat, and suddenly there was nothing for it but to tear at Joey the same way: to lay him bare, to get _closer_ , any way at all.

They fucked like that, right there. Mitch couldn't stop it. He didn't want to. He felt Joey undoing Mitch's belt and then his own, quick hard jerks, and he shuddered and clutched Joey's shoulders, bit Joey's mouth and sucked on Joey's tongue and kept on not stopping.

It felt like he wasn't going to have to. Like surely one or the other of them was going to get a grip on their sanity again—like he had to hurry up and get what he could before that happened, before one of them shoved the other away and said, _Jesus Christ, what the fuck are we doing?_

Except neither of them did. Joey kept kissing him, groping him, hands and mouth and teeth everywhere, fierce and clumsy; and then abruptly he was pulling away, lips red, eyes sharp. He turned Mitch with a shove, harder than he needed to, like he was afraid Mitch might not go—Mitch almost laughed, except it would have come out half-hysterical, because jesus, that was the last thing Joey needed to worry about. He turned around under Joey's hands, heart pounding in his chest, and braced himself against the wall, pressed his hot cheek to the paint and clenched his fists over his head, elbows to either side of his shoulders. His shirt was hanging off him, loose, but Joey hadn't bothered taking it off. And his slacks were open, and he knew Joey was about to push them down, and he was shuddering, teeth gritted, just thinking about it.

Joey did push them down. He dug his fingers into Mitch's ass, not smug or satisfied the way Mitch definitely had not ever imagined it, but—but desperate still, hungry, like—

Like _he_ thought this was going to get taken away from him, too. Like he had to hurry up and get what he could, before Mitch pushed him away.

He gave Mitch a couple fingers first, not that he had to. Mitch would've—Mitch would've let him do whatever he wanted, and that thought should've been a lot more terrifying than it was. They didn't have anything, lube, a condom; Mitch knew already he didn't care. Joey had at least sucked on his fingers first, but that was all, and to Mitch it felt good, right, that it should burn a little, thick hot friction relentlessly building.

He relaxed as best he could. He made himself breathe. He was so hard he could barely think. And then Joey actually started pushing into him, and jesus, he couldn't stand it, he was gone.

He dimly understood that he was making harsh wet sounds in his throat. He was—he'd collapsed against the wall, was letting himself be shoved into it with every little thrust of Joey's hips as Joey pinned him there and worked his cock into Mitch an inch at a time; he wasn't bracing himself anymore, because he needed his hands to reach back, to clutch awkwardly at Joey's waist, Joey's arms. He was—he was saying, " _Yes_ , god, Joey—Joey," Joey's name over and over and over again, like he'd been swallowing months' worth of it down, saving it up until Joey was actually here to hear it.

Joey fucked him almost viciously, short hard thrusts like blows, and Mitch took it without flinching, frantic for it. It burned, it ached; he couldn't get enough of it; he loved it. He realized somewhere in the middle of it that he was—his cock was leaking all over the wall, pressed to it, rubbing with every motion of Joey's hips. He came, helpless to prevent it, tensing and shuddering, clenching so tight around Joey that Joey cursed at him breathlessly and fucked into him even harder, and jesus, it was so fucking good his eyes stung.

Joey didn't last too much longer, after that. Mitch had half a second's warning in the way his grip—already barely short of bruising—tightened, the way his breath hitched in Mitch's ear, the hungry stuttered rolling of his hips. Mitch could _feel_ him come, and god, it shouldn't have been hot at all, the sheer wet mess of it, but it was.

Jesus.

Joey stayed there for a second once it was over, pressed tight to Mitch's back. And then he made a sharp hurt sound and pushed himself away, pulled out all at once.

"Joey," Mitch said, grimacing, fumbling against the wall and trying to figure out how to make his legs work again, trying to turn around. He was still bare-assed, pants around his thighs, sticky with come—but then he caught a glimpse of the look on Joey's face, and suddenly he couldn't care less. "Joey," he said again, swallowing.

"Guess you're going to have to report this, huh," Joey spat. "Let your fucking handlers or whatever know somebody recognized you. That's how it works, right?"

Mitch drew a slow breath. "Sure," he said, level, and didn't look away from Joey. "They'd move me again."

Joey's mouth twisted, vicious, sneering. "Yeah? You think that's going to help? You can fucking forget it, understand? There's nowhere they can put you where I can't find you, McDeere. You can run as far as you want from the rest of it, but not me," and his tone was fierce and filled with disdain, but—

But Mitch thought, suddenly, that he understood what the words meant anyway.

He might not have, before. He might not have, if he'd been standing here without Joey's fingerprints on his thighs, if his mouth hadn't still been stinging with the heat Joey's teeth and tongue had left behind. He might not have thought it was anything but another one of Joey's threats.

But like this, it sounded different. It sounded like, maybe, _don't leave me. Don't leave me again._

Because Joey wanted him. Joey wanted him so much Joey had hunted him down, had kissed him, had fucked him. And, knowing that, it was impossible not to realize that Mitch hadn't been kidding himself after all: that all that time he'd spent letting himself fall into Joey's orbit, desperate for somewhere to be that wasn't his empty house, wasn't watching Ray and Tammy smile at each other—all the things he'd felt, that strange heavy tension that had come over him sometimes when he looked at Joey too long—

It had been real after all. Joey had felt it too. Jesus, Joey had listened to Ray, had come and stolen Mitch back from the Russians. Had refused to let go.

And then Mitch had vanished on him anyway, without a word.

And, Mitch thought, it had been making that sound like no big deal that had set Joey off in the first place. _Your favorite toy got taken away. You couldn't yank my chain anymore_ —that was what he'd been saying, the thing Joey hadn't been able to stand listening to, the thing that had made Joey call him an idiot and then kiss him in that first furious inexorable rush.

He wet his lips, and looked at Joey, and said quietly, "I don't know. Sounds like it would be kind of a pain."

Joey went still.

"Moving again, I mean," Mitch added, after a second.

"Yeah," Joey said, staring at him, jaw tight. "Because you really made this place your own."

Mitch snorted without meaning to. Jim Barclay's house had come pre-furnished; it was spotless. The Marshals could move somebody else in here within a day, and it would be as much theirs as it was Mitch's. Joey obviously knew it.

"It's growing on me," Mitch said aloud.

He wanted to take a step—jesus, his waistband was still caught around his thighs. He shook his head at himself and yanked his slacks back up, ignored the way his ass felt and didn't bother zipping up. Joey's dick was still hanging out, too. Made them even.

And then he closed the distance Joey had put between them, and Joey watched him with wary eyes but didn't move away.

"I'm thinking maybe I'd like to stick around for a while," Mitch added, and reached up, settled his fingertips against the line of Joey's jaw and watched the muscle in it jump.

"McDeere," Joey said, sharp.

Mitch kissed him.

Joey didn't move, for a long second. He felt strained, tense, under Mitch's hands, against Mitch's mouth.

And then, finally, he shifted his weight just a little. Toward Mitch, not away. The set of his lips softened, the barest suggestion of a willingness to someday part. He was in control of himself now, he wasn't going to give himself away if he could help it; not like before, frantic with want, fucking Mitch's mouth with his tongue.

But he was letting Mitch kiss him, and he hadn't punched Mitch in the face. For him, that was saying a hell of a lot already.

Mitch eased away. "I'm thinking I could use a shower," he said, low, into the breath of space between them. "And Jim Barclay's shower is pretty big."

Joey gave him a flat look. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Mitch said mildly.

"Fine," Joey bit out; and Mitch took him by the wrist and drew him toward the stairs.


End file.
